LOLITA.
i. | ❝ trust you. ❞

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HE DIDN'T LIKE the quiet. It unnerved him.

Perhaps that's why Shane Walsh found himself wandering around the woodland surrounding their camp on that mild, balmy afternoon, with a rifle slung over his shoulder and a furrow at his brow.

As an ex-cop, he had once lived a life of adventure and hasty spontaneity. With walkers swarming the city of Atlanta and civilisation at crisis-point, you'd think he would be grateful for a little peace. That wasn't the case, however, because Shane was the sort of guy who didn't trust the restful silence that circled the survivors up there in the mountains. For him, there was always some kind of threat. It was just a case of finding it.

It was then that he noticed a slender, feminine figure leaning against a tree just a few feet away from him. He moved closer stealthily, carefully raising his rifle and taking aim - only to discover that her skin was not discoloured and rotting away, and the small panting breaths that left her parted lips sounded nothing like the raspy groans emitted by the dead.

She was human.

He had two options. He could leave her, alone and vulnerable - imminent walker bait - or he could interrogate her, and if he found that she wasn't a threat, bring her back to camp with him.

He chose the latter option.

Slowly and carefully, Shane allowed himself to step into her view. She raised her head, and he found himself faced with a pair of big, beautiful doe-eyes, framed by long, dark lashes that seemed to throw a shadow on her cheekbones and left him questioning whether she was human or some kind of immortal being.

"Drop your weapons." His voice, low and husky, seemed almost unrecognisable as he uttered the command.

The girl looked petrified, pressing her back against the tree and allowing her tender rosebud lips to part in shock. With trembling hands, she reached for the hilt of a small knife that was tucked inside the waistband of her slim-fitting mini-skirt, before drawing it and letting it fall to the ground.

So she ain't stupid, he thought. She knows well enough to listen to a man with a gun. Her choice of outfit, however, did cause him to question how she'd managed to survive out here for so long.

"What's your name, girl?" he continued, lowering his gun slightly, his gaze flickering over her frail, trembling form.

She swallowed, straightening up and tilting her chin defiantly, an unfathomable sparkle in her eye. "Cassandra Rafferty. My friends call my Cass. Well, they would if I had any friends." Her voice was light - clear as a bell with a distinct English accent - and it was clear to him that she was trying to show that she was unafraid and unperturbed by this armed stranger in the woods.

But then again, compared to the living dead of Atlanta, Shane must have been a walk in the park.

His brows slanted into a frown as he moved closer to her, his eyes drawn to the faint blood splatters that peppered her ivory silk blouse. "You been bit?" he pressed. "Scratched?"

She shook her head mutely, a look of mistrust masking her fear. "Who are you?"

"Don't ask no questions," he commanded, shifting slightly and eyeing her speculatively. "How many walkers you killed?"

"Walkers?"

"The undead," Shane confirmed impatiently.

"Two," she responded, tilting her head slightly and narrowing her eyes. She knew that she only had to allow her gaze to skim his broad, athletic figure, and a surge of hormones would be coursing through her veins in an ardent frenzy. Keep your eyes on his face, and his face alone, she told herself firmly, intent on remaining composed and in control.

He paused for a moment, weighing her up before nodding his head curtly. "Alright." The pair made eye-contact before he continued, reaching up to rub the back of his head absentmindedly. "Listen, there's a camp not far from here. I can take you there - but if you try anything, I won't hold back from putting a bullet in your head."

Cassandra scoffed, shaking her head and straightening up slightly. "How can I be sure I can trust you?" She took on a challenging tone, resting a hand at her small waist as she observed him; unabashed, and unafraid.

The dark-haired man raised his brows, both impressed and irritated by her confidence. He was offering her sanctuary and protection from this new, unfamiliar world, and she was questioning it?

He simply shook his head at her, a breathless chuckle leaving his lips. "'Cause, darlin', right now I'm all you've got."

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